Things Change
by invis
Summary: If I were stronger, I would’ve been able to keep her out of my head, to cut her out of my life when she left and I didn’t know if she’d be back. Thank God I’m not that strong. Yep, it's a postep for Burned.


**Title: **Things Change  
**Spoilers: **Post-ep for Burned  
**Disclaimer: **I own a really nice collection of Smurf glasses. I do not own anything along the lines of, say, Law & Order SVU.

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She's stronger than I am.

I'm tough, but she's strong. I punch things that are more solid than I am; I break things, and they break me. She runs up against steel and turns it to rain. I stand still, resolute; I deflect weakness. She runs, and yet she is immovable.

And when she runs, she runs with a speed that whips a part of me along with her. As firm as I stand, the pull of her is stronger. It is not at her command, or, probably, even within her control. It isn't static, either, but a force that seems nonexistent one moment and unbreakable the next. The pull of her is elastic, and the further away we get, the harder we snap back. The more we try to distance ourselves, the harder we crash into each other.

The crash this time was frightening and exhilarating at once. If I were stronger, I wouldn't have that sick fear in the pit of my stomach that one more angry word could make her walk away and not come back. But if I were stronger, I would've been able to keep her out of my head, to cut her out of my life when she left and I didn't know if she'd be back. Thank God I'm not that strong.

I'll gladly relinquish some strength, because, God help me, I need that crash. Good or bad, it's contact. And contact with Olivia—even if it's angry and maybe hurtful and probably unhealthy—is what keeps me going. She's my fuel. Some people run on caffeine, some on cocaine; I run on Liv, and you can't find a higher octane than that.

_Crash._

Her leg is bumping up against mine. It's friendly, companionable. And it's an apology, and a plea, and a come-on.

"So," she says, turning her eyes to me lazily, "there was talk of food?" She bumps my leg again, which means "Feed me," and "Find me," and "Forgive me."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, grinning like an idiot. "Keep yer shirt on."

She quirks her eyebrow at me—an act she has perfected and imbued with so many nuances that I truly believe she could effectively address a crowd with her mouth taped shut.

"Or don't," I continue. "You might get a more expensive breakfast if you up the ante a little."

She laughs out loud, unselfconsciously, like the old Liv. Or the new one. Any Liv is fine by me. "Please, Stabler," she mocks. "I know how much you make."

"Denny's it is," I say, rising off the step. She holds out her hand and I pull her up. We are toe to toe, a bit off balance, before I realize it: she held out her hand. She reached out, and this time, _I_ got to pull _her_.

We're too close together and she sways a little and I grip her arms to steady her as she falls against me. It's only a little crash, like a tap on a cymbal in a quiet room, but it feels big. We move apart and she looks down and laughs, and I give a short chuckle like I'm Mr. Nonchalant. We step apart, but as we move toward her car, I realize I have to get my wallet before I can pay for this fancy breakfast.

"Liv," I say, gesturing toward the building. "I need—"

"Wallet," she supplies with a nod. She looks toward the car and then back at me. "I'll come with you."

I bite back a lewd comeback, because I'm afraid it would come out sounding more like an invitation than a joke. There are still lines. They may have shifted, but they're still there. I'm just not sure which side I'm on right now.

I walk past her into the building, and there is a strange sense of familiarity as she follows me up the stairs—stairs she has never ascended. It feels as though we will walk into my apartment and take off our jackets and hang them up, and there will be a hook for hers, like it was always there. It'll be the one on the left, closest to the door, because she's always in a hurry.

We step into the apartment and she looks around while I go retrieve my wallet from the top of the dresser. As I walk back into the living room, I notice there is only one coat hook next to the door. Maybe I'll stop by the hardware store after work tonight. One coat hook may have been all right for the last guy, but I feel like adding on. After all, things change.

- - - - -

The End


End file.
